Chapter 2 - THE RULES OF THE ESTATE
The Buckhead estate operated under an intricate system of silence and precision. Built on three acres of prime forest land off Tuxedo Road, the property featured a sprawling three-story main house made of dark stone and glass, a detached four-car garage, and a renovated carriage house near the rear gate that served as living quarters for the live-in staff.
Nancy Price stood in the main kitchen at 6:30 A.M., reviewing the daily schedule on a stainless-steel clipboard. She was a woman who valued order above all things, having served the Mason family for over thirty years. She had managed Dominic’s father during the turbulent years of the family's rise, and she had remained after the elder Mason was buried, adapting seamlessly to Dominic's far more quiet, far more rigid reign.
When Megan entered the kitchen carrying Toby, Nancy immediately paused, her eyes narrowing as she took in the exhausted state of the younger woman.
"You look like you haven't slept a minute," Nancy observed, placing her clipboard on the granite island.
"I haven't," Megan replied, setting Toby down in a wooden high chair near the breakfast nook. She retrieved a small plastic container of oatmeal from her bag and began warming it in the microwave. "Mr. Mason’s fever was very high last night."
Nancy froze. Her hands tightened around the edges of her clipboard. "You went into his room?"
"He was shivering, Nancy. I could hear him from the hallway."
"Megan," Nancy said, her voice dropping into a low, harsh whisper as she stepped closer to the counter. "We have specific protocols for a reason. Mr. Mason does not like people in his private quarters, especially when he is unwell. If he wakes up and finds out you were hovering around his bed—"
"He was already awake when I left," Megan interrupted calmly, stirring the warm oatmeal with a plastic spoon. "And he didn't throw me out. He just asked about the orange juice."
Nancy stared at her in disbelief. "He spoke to you?"
"Yes. And his temperature is back to normal. He should probably rest for another few hours, but he isn't delirious anymore." Megan fed a spoonful of oatmeal to Toby, who clapped his small, sticky hands happily. "He's fine, Nancy. Stern, quiet, and completely unreasonable, but fine."
Nancy shook her head, running a hand over her neatly pinned grey hair. "You don't understand the fire you're playing with, child. Dominic Mason is not just a wealthy man with a bad leg. The people who come to this house late at night don't come for cocktail parties. The men who stand at the front gate don't work for a private security firm you find in the phone book. There are rules here meant to protect us just as much as him."
"I don't care about his visitors, Nancy," Megan said softly, looking down at her son. "I care about twenty-two dollars an hour. I care about buying groceries without having my card declined at the register. I care about keeping a roof over Toby's head. As long as Mr. Mason pays me on Friday, he can be as cold as he wants."
"He fired the last girl because she left a feather duster on his desk," Nancy warned.
"Then she must not have dusted the desk very well," Megan replied dryly, wiping a smudge of oatmeal from Toby's chin.
While the two women spoke in the kitchen, a dark sedan pulled up the long, winding driveway toward the front main entrance.
Marcus, Dominic’s personal driver and head of security, stepped out of the vehicle. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late forties, wearing a tailored black suit that barely concealed the massive frame beneath it. He walked with the efficient, measured tread of a former military officer, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line surrounding the property.
He entered through the side entrance, passing through the kitchen without a word, heading straight toward the primary elevator that led up to the master suite.
When he reached the third floor, he knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.
"Come in," Dominic’s deep voice answered from inside.
Marcus opened the door and stepped through. He paused briefly, his sharp eyes taking in the room. The silver basin on the nightstand, the damp towels, and the untouched glass of juice were still there, indicating that someone had been inside the room for an extended period.
Dominic was sitting up in bed, fully dressed in a crisp grey shirt and charcoal trousers. His custom wheelchair was parked right beside the mattress, ready for transfer.
"You look better boss," Marcus said, his voice deep and gravelly. "Word came down from the club last night that Arthur Vance was asking questions about your absence."
Dominic’s expression darkened slightly at the mention of the name. Arthur Vance was a former associate of his father—a man who controlled several logistics operations near the Port of Savannah and had spent the last five years trying to encroach on Dominic’s real estate holdings in downtown Atlanta.
"Vance thinks because I missed a meeting with the port authorities on Monday, the fever took me out," Dominic said smoothly, shifting his weight to move himself from the bed into his wheelchair with practiced, effortless strength. His upper body power was formidable, a result of daily conditioning designed to compensate for his useless lower limbs.
"Should I send a few men down to his office to remind him of the agreement?" Marcus asked.
"No," Dominic replied, settling into the leather seat of his chair and adjusting his cuffs. "Vance is patient, but he’s stupid. He won't make a move until he's certain I'm incapacitated. Let him think I'm weak for a few more days. It will make his next mistake much more expensive."
Dominic wheeled himself toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear lawn. Below, near the stone patio that bordered the manicured gardens, he could see a small figure in a faded yellow sweater pushing a stroller along the stone path.
Marcus stepped up beside him, following his line of sight.
"The new girl spent the night up here," Marcus noted calmly. "Security cameras caught her entering the main wing at 11:14 P.M. with the kid."
Dominic didn't turn around. "Did she touch anything else in the house?"
"No. Just the kitchen for towels and ice. She stayed in your room the entire time." Marcus paused, looking down at his employer. "I can have Nancy reassign her to the outer grounds if her presence is a problem."
Dominic watched as Megan stopped near a patch of hydrangeas, bending down to pick up a bright red leaf to show her son. The child let out a tiny, high-pitched laugh that carried faintly through the thick glass.
"No," Dominic said softly. "Leave her where she is."
"Boss—"
"She stays in the main house, Marcus," Dominic repeated, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "And make sure the men at the gate know her face. If anyone comes near this estate looking for information on my health, she isn't to be questioned."
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Marcus stared at Dominic for a long second, processing the unusual command. In twenty years, Dominic Mason had never extended his personal umbrella of protection over a domestic staff member.
"Understood," Marcus nodded. "I'll update the security protocols."
